


The Reigate Stockholders

by JuweWright



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Related, Gen, M/M, The Reigate Squires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-01-09 21:19:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuweWright/pseuds/JuweWright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loosely based on A. C. Doyles "The Reigate Squires". After a particular hard case, John and Sherlock visit an old friend of John in Surrey just to find out that the countryside also has its crimes to solve. Slight pre-slash if you want to see it that way, friendship if you don't. Please review!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another one of my close-to-canon stories. This time I took "The Reigate Squires" and updated them into today's Sherlock. I posted this on FFnet originally and going to re-upload it here bit by bit. Hope you like this kind of thing. There might be slight fluffy moments but it's generally non-slash.

I had been working for three days and nights straight as there had been a lot of patients to attend to. Now it had become a little calmer and I had just decided to spend the last few hours of the night sleeping in the hospital after checking the responses to the last blog entry which I had written about Sherlock Holmes' last case and which had been published not only on my own website but even in the "Times" and other well-known newspapers.

Sherlock had received a lot of publicity after solving the mystery of a crime that had affected not only the royal family but also their relations in Spain and the Netherlands. The case had been a tough one and had kept him working for five weeks – a very unusual amount of time for his amazing brain. As Sherlock tended to neither eat nor sleep properly when his mind was busy with deduction, I was not too surprised when my phone rang and Mrs Hudson told me that Sherlock – finally returning to Baker Street in the middle of the night after having been interviewed by all the important papers, radio stations and TV channels on the matter – had more or less collapsed immediately after closing the door behind him. Poor old Mrs Hudson had managed to drag him into the living room and onto the couch where he had regained consciousness for seconds in which he had asked her to call me.

Nothing could have worried me more than my friend actually asking for me in my function as a doctor rather than in the function of his biographer – and the guy he could always have at hand to show off his admirable deduction skills - and so I postponed my nap, asked a colleague to contact me in case I would be needed and rushed out to catch a cab home.

When I entered the house, Mrs Hudson was already waiting for me. She looked desperate enough and hardly let me take off my coat before ushering me into the living room where the patient lay outstretched and unconscious.

I noticed the obvious signs of exhaustion and fatigue on his face, the shadows beneath his eyes and the paleness that struck me as being even whiter than usual. I checked his pulse and his reflexes and was relieved. There was nothing wrong with my flatmate except for the fact that he had overworked himself.

"Will he survive it, doctor?", asked Mrs Hudson who was still standing in the doorway with a look on her face that indicated she was bracing herself for the worst. I smiled.

"It's okay Mrs Hudson. He'll be all right. A good week's rest should do the job. And a good deal of amazing cooking on your side. By the way, would you mind to make some tea? I guess it would do him good."

She nodded and was out of the room. Now that I knew Sherlock was okay, my fatigue came back in an instant and I yawned.

"You could easily drive a carriage into that", I heard a familiar voice remarking with a light chuckle.

"Sherlock!", my voice sounded happier than I would have liked it to do, but at this very instant I didn't care.

"I feel horrible", he stated.

"You look horrible", I returned although my mind was protesting at the possibility of him ever looking horrible even in his worst moments.

"Well, same to you John. I perceive you have not slept for days and today was particularly stressful as you had an operation at about lunchtime and could not even celebrate the birthday of one of the nurses in the afternoon although she had made a delicious chocolate cake."

I was stunned. One might think that you get used to a character like Sherlock over time, but you don't… at least I didn't.

"True. All of it", I answered, falling into my favourite armchair with a sigh. I didn't even check whether any sharps or other criminalist material was lying between the cushions. Sherlock's absence from the flat had left its traces: The place was neat, tidy and clean. Much tidier and cleaner than it would ever be in the presence of the genius who just never moved a finger to clean up his mess. "How did you work it out this time?"

"Oh, it's elementary. It's quite simple, really. Knowing your habits as well or even better than you do yourself… but let me explain: You usually wear new trousers to work every second day and you own four different ones at the moment which you use to put on in a cycle. So knowing which pair of jeans you were wearing when I saw you the last time, I can easily do the maths to deduce you should have worn the particular pair I now see on you five days ago and then swapped it. But work kept you at the clinic, so you didn't. Simple, really. And just in case you now want to tell me something about the possibility of a broken washing machine: Mrs Hudson has washed those curtains over there lately, which can easily be told because she put them up the wrong way round. Oh and there she comes with a steaming teapot and my favourite cup. Much obliged Mrs Hudson."

Mrs Hudson stared at my friend with her eyes wide open.

"You're awake", she stammered.

"I am awake, but hardly", he answered and took the cup from her hands with a smile. "And thank you very much for doing me the favour of not leaving me lying in the hallway. Embarrassing to pass out just like that. Won't happen again, I promise."

"No it won't", I exclaimed. "Because the next time you try to work yourself to the grave, I'll make sure you don't succeed."

Mrs Hudson murmured something like "almost scared me to death" and then left the room again. Sherlock waited until she had closed the door before going on.

"Okay, so, what else was there? The missed lunch: You usually eat quite late so when you miss the point to go to the canteen you won't get anything. As you are one of those people who never manage to eat without leaving one or two spots on his clothes and as the youngest spots visible on that shirt must be more than 48 hours old I get that you were unable to leave your work for lunch. I know you had an operation because I can still see the marks of the surgical mask at your neck and cheeks. There's also a slight smell of disinfectant and narcotics hanging in your clothes. I know it was the nurse's birthday because I remember you got an invitation from her last year when she turned thirty. When you weren't able to attend to her ceremony she brought you a slice of cake in the evening before she left, which you ate not too long ago as there are still crumbs on your shirt. Don't be embarrassed, John, I know you can't eat properly, it's never made you any less valuable as a friend."

I had blushed slightly at his last observation and now had to take a big sip from my teacup to hide my mouth twisting into a smile when he called me "valuable as a friend".

"You should go to bed soon", I said before I got up to retire to my own room. "You might feel all right at the moment, but I tell you, exhaustion like that doesn't wear off after an hour of sleep even if you take it to the level of almost being a coma. You'll find the remains of this affair will be with you for at least a week, so do me a favour and take it easy during that time."

I was used to him mocking me for being overprotective, so I was kind of astonished when he nodded and got up from the sofa immediately. It also was worrying because it indicated that he didn't feel well.

"You're completely right, John. That was a hell of a case. But what an interesting thing, what a mastermind of a criminal... I like being challenged, you know."

We bade each other good night and I was relieved to know he was for a change taking my medical advice seriously. Even an ascetic like him could not take his body and mind to the limit all the time. I just hoped he would only show the physical problems that came with the sudden end of our latest adventure but I already feared I would have to endure more than that.


	2. Chapter 2

My mind had been restless during the night and although I had slept until the morning light which at this time of year – it was late October – didn't appear until about 10am, I didn't feel relaxed. I had almost strangled myself with my bed sheet whilst dreaming weird things about men in black cloaks hunting Sherlock and me down a narrow lane. There had been no crossings, no turns, just that straight lane with tall houses of grey stone right and left that looked as if they had never and would never be inhabited by any human being. And right in front of us, right in the direction that our pursuers forced us to run, there was a huge hole in the ground, an abyss that would swallow us both. Just as we took that final step and started falling, I had woken up with a scream.

When I came down for breakfast after a quick shower, my friend was already having his coffee whilst scanning the papers for news. He looked up and a frown appeared on his forehead.

"Didn't sleep well?"

"Horrible."

"Cup of Coffee?"

"Thank you."

"Taste it before you thank me, I had to make it myself as Mrs Hudson has gone out to meet a friend of hers who has not been in town for a while and now is only staying a few hours before heading to France."

I did as he had said and almost spit the stuff out again.

"What is that? Tar?", I asked pouring the rest of it into the sink and putting the kettle on to take refuge in the realms of instant coffee.

"I told you it might not be the healthiest hot drink of all times."

"It's disgusting. How many spoonfuls of ground coffee did you put into that?"

"I don't know - a couple."

"Sherlock", I sighed and poured the hot water onto the brown crumbs that turned into coffee as soon as the liquid touched them. After pouring some milk into the cup, I sat down at the kitchen table and began to butter a toast. It was slightly burnt, from which I concluded Sherlock had been the one who used the toaster as well.

"So, anything interesting in the papers?", I asked.

Holmes threw down the page he had just been reading and shook his head. I had a look at it and noticed a couple of headlines that sounded interesting.

"Strange murder in Glasgow: Man was thrown into the Clyde"

"Fabergé Egg stolen at exhibition. Mission (im)possible?"

"So what about this?", I asked. "The man in the Clyde who was found to have peculiar strangling marks on his neck?"

"Boring", came the prompt answer from my flatmate. "Incident with a prostitute. Some people seem to have unusual preferences. This guy made his chosen woman put her bra around his neck and pull tight. She lost control halfway through or didn't pay attention and accidentally killed him. She then disposed of the corpse with the help of her sugar daddy. Case solved. I called the police officer in charge of the case five minutes before you came in. He is checking the facts and will come back to me in less than an hour to tell me my conclusions were perfectly right."

"And this: The thing with the Fabergé theft?", I asked, just to have the full picture. I already knew the mood Sherlock was in. After his brain had been running hot on the last case, he could not just calm down and have a rest. A mind like his needed occupation, serious occupation. And when nothing could be found to be interesting enough, Sherlock could turn out to be quite a plague. At least he had not yet started smoking unhealthy amounts of cigarettes, drinking Scotch and playing the violin all day. I looked about the room and saw the violin case resting on the shelf, opened, the bow lying next to it, strung. Okay, I had been wrong about the violin. My eyes wandered further and noticed a glass next to the sink. Scotch... and it wasn't even lunchtime! And in this very instant, my friend lit a cigarette. So the Fabergé case had also been too easy for him.

"It's an insurance scam. Don't ask me why nobody found that out in the first place. It's pretty obvious. The room was guarded and monitored. Nobody saw anyone come or go and there is not a single clue that would hint at someone breaking into the building in which the Egg was kept. I didn't even take the pains of calling the local police. They will find out soon enough or they are blind, deaf, stupid and should better have picked a different job."

I took a sip from my coffee cup. Oh the joy of sharing a flat with a complete and utter sociopath who was now bored and therefore in the worst mood imaginable. Still didn't change anything about him looking astonishingly agile and well in his blue nightgown this morning. The full night of sleep had done him good and I kind of liked when his hair was a bit ruffled, but I already started to pray for a new case: Something interesting, something that was worth his attention but didn't endanger his health being completely restored. As for now I would have to make the best of the situation and endure the half-depressive brooding of my companion. Nobody else managed to do that and nobody else would ever do. I had been driven to the edge only once before when Sherlock – in a moment of utter boredom – had laid his hands on his revolver and by the means of bullets written the letters VR into the wall between his bedroom and mine. As long as he didn't set anything on fire or constructed a biological weapon – other than coffee - in our kitchen, I was pretty sure I would cope with anything as long as the situation did not exceed a certain amount of time.


	3. Chapter 3

I came to admit that three days of Sherlock bored equalled three days of Mrs Hudson on the edge of committing suicide and me torn between the two of them trying to be the negotiating diplomat. In my function as a medical man I could not let the old lady suffer from Sherlock's behaviour and began to wonder what could be done about it. Finally I remembered the invitation of an old friend of mine. Christopher Hayter had been one of my patients back in Afghanistan. He had been brought to me with almost no hope left as a bullet had hit his main artery and he was losing blood very quickly. I managed to stabilize him and get him out of the camp with the next flight. He survived and had stayed in contact ever since. He was now living in Surrey where he had bought a nice estate near Reigate and he had asked me more than once whether I wanted to come down for a visit.

It had only been a month ago that he had called again because he needed medical advice. After I had answered the question to his satisfaction he thanked me warmly and repeated his invitation, adding: "If you want to bring your friend Sherlock with you, I would be delighted to welcome him also."

The word "friend" had had a weird sound in my ears but I had swallowed the reply that was already tumbling down my tongue. Christopher would never ever think anything of that sort about me and Sherlock. At least I hoped he didn't. But that was not the part that mattered anyways. What mattered was: here was the perfect opportunity to get Sherlock a) out of the house b) into a new environment and c) away from Mrs Hudson which would probably do both of them good. So before leaving the clinic that day, I called upon Christopher. He was happy to hear I wanted to come round and seemed to be glad when he heard that Sherlock would – if I could convince him - be coming too. "Such an honour", he said, "to have the famous detective as my guest."

So that part was settled. Now for the difficult bit. When I came home the flat looked as if not one but several bombs had gone off in it. I didn't even want to know what it would have looked like, if Mrs Hudson had not permanently been on my companion's heels, tidying and cleaning up after him. Poor creature. I decided she deserved a box of chocolates, a big box of very good expensive chocolates and a huge bouquet of yellow roses to cheer her up.

Sherlock was playing the violin. Good. Better that than the knife-throwing we had had to endure the day before.

"Hi", I said entering his room. "I'm going to go down to Surrey and visit Christopher Hayter and I was wondering whether you would like to join me. Just get out of here for a while."

At first, my friend was not too enthusiastic about my proposal but after he had understood that Hayter didn't have a family and that apart from the occasional game of cards nothing would be expected of him, he warmed to the idea and finally it was all settled and we were off to Surrey the next morning.

It was a nice change to sit next to a showered, fully dressed, combed and shaved Sherlock again after he had done the backwards-evolution to the caveman during the last couple of days. He didn't talk though and sat brooding and staring out of the window of the car I had hired for the trip. After I had tried a bit of conversation and not even received a grunt in return, I gave up and concentrated on the road ahead of us. At least he was up and dressed. Time would do the rest.

Christopher, about six feet tall, in his forties, short dark hair and a bit overweight, had been expecting us. We had just got out of the car when he came out of the house say hello. I remembered the half-dead injured man he had been and was happy to perceive he was well and nothing had remained from the shot but a small white mark at his throat.

"Welcome, welcome", he said and shook my hand. Sherlock had been scanning the surroundings absentmindedly and was surprised to be pulled back into reality by a pair of huge hands almost crushing his slender violinist fingers.

"Delighted to make your acquaintance Mr Holmes. One reads a lot about your superior skills in the papers these days. So I am actually the host for a celebrity now. But come in, come in, both of you. I have made dinner. Started cooking as a hobby a couple of years ago and now I take what chance I can get to serve my creations to people. Don't look like that Mr Holmes. I am an old acquaintance of Watson here and he'll tell you I would never poison the food I serve to a guest, especially if that guest is not only a highly acclaimed detective but also a special friend of my life-saver."

There it was again that weird feeling. "Special friend". I swallowed. Christopher would NEVER think that. Never ever.

Dinner was delicious. My old comrade had surpassed himself. Chicken Balmoral, carrots, potatoes, and for dessert there was chocolate mousse. After dinner, he got out a bottle of wine and the two of us started talking about old times whilst Sherlock hung about on the sofa examining the papers. It got late but at some point around midnight, we all decided it was time to retire and get a good night's sleep.

"If you would just follow me", said Christopher opening one of the drawers in the sideboards and pulling out a pistol. When he saw my astonished look and Sherlock's interested frown, he smiled and managed a half-hearted laugh.

"Oh, this is just if there should be a break in. I don't want to meet a burglar unarmed."

"Do you expect anyone to break in?", Sherlock asked and I could see a gleam in his eyes that betrayed his feelings. He was hoping that there was a case to solve that would get him out of his black mood.

"Well", said Christopher. "There has been a break-in at Acton's place and it's not too far from here. The burglars didn't destroy much but they are still on the run."

The gleam in Sherlock's eyes got brighter.

"And the police doesn't have a clue who it could have been?"

"Not as far as I know, no. But you shouldn't interest yourself in this Mr Holmes. It's quite a small countryside affair that is probably much below the crimes you usually solve."

We were walking up the stairs now and I could see Sherlock's shadow making a gesture as if shrugging off the compliment. But the smile I saw on his face when he turned on the landing gave away how much it pleased him to hear a complete stranger sing his praises.

"Was there anything interesting about the case?"

"I don't think so. They just made a huge mess in the library at Acton's estate; probably because they didn't find anything that was worth the effort of breaking in and were disappointed. The only things missing are a volume of Homer's "Odyssey", two candleholders that they assumed to be silver but were actually cheap replicates, an ivory letter-weight and a compass that had belonged to Acton's great grandfather but didn't have any value other than of the personal sort."

"That's odd", I exclaimed. All that stuff sounded like random clutter. I couldn't see any point behind robbing it.

"They seem to have just grabbed whatever was in their reach", said Christopher with a shrug. He stopped in front of one of the doors in the corridor and opened it.

"I hope this is okay for you. I keep a couple of rooms as guest-rooms up here. You have your own little sitting room with a newly purchased flat screen. I also installed a sound-system lately. I like to keep everything up to date. Towels, shampoo and everything else you might need is on the shelf in the bathroom. Hope you can cope without a bathtub as it only has a shower."

I smiled and nodded.

"It will be all right for sure. We'll see you tomorrow morning."

And so he left us and we were left standing in that "small" living room which in my eyes was pretty much full sized and had a very comfortable-looking sofa in it. Sherlock went on through the bedroom door and just seconds later reappeared laughing his head off.

"What is that about?", I asked being taken aback by this sudden outburst of humour in my friend. He tried to say something, didn't manage and just waved me to have a look into the room myself. When I did, I didn't feel the slightest bit like laughing. Well, there was the bedroom. And it consisted of one huge king size bed. Two duvets, two pillows... but still. It was one bed for two people. Part of me wanted to immediately run after Christopher and tell him he was mistaken in the nature of my relationship to Sherlock, but that would have been bad manners.

"Okay, so do we draw sticks who is to sleep on the sofa?", I asked instead.

Sherlock looked surprised and scratched his head beneath the dark locks.

"So, you'd rather sleep on the sofa than just cope with this for a night? The bed is huge, you'll have your own blanket and pillow... I usually don't bite..."

"I will not share a bed with you", I snapped and crossed my arms in front of my chest.

"Well, in that case. The sofa is all yours. I think this bed looks quite all right and I don't intend to give it up."

"Brillant. And tomorrow we'll have to set the matter straight with Christopher."

Sherlock shook his head in a light chuckle.

"You make such a fuss about this... I don't see the problem."

I sighed and got rid of my shoes before getting out my toothbrush and toothpaste and heading to the bathroom. Sherlock was on my heels, so I turned around giving him an angry stare.

"You don't see the problem because you're not normal. You live in your own little Sherlock-world of crime-solving and deduction where everything is trivial except for the most trivial things as making coffee. You're like your own solar-system in which you're the sun and all other people are not even planets but debris that you don't even notice."

He looked at me, seemed to be wondering why I was upset, shrugged and disappeared into the bedroom again just to appear next to me in his nightgown to join me when I was brushing my teeth. He kept pulling funny faces in front of the mirror. His way of saying sorry. I knew I would not get anything closer to receiving an apology from him and smiled to show I didn't mind him being the most complicated person I had ever had to put up with.

I left the bath to him and took my pillow and blanket to the sofa and was checking the latest replies to my blog when he came out. He looked amused, content.

"Just do me one favour", I said. "Don't stop eating again, just in case you're actually going to investigate that Acton-matter. Even you can't live from air alone."

"That would be worth trying", he said and grinned right afterwards his hands in the air. "Okay, okay, I'm going to eat. Fine now?"

"Yes."

"Any interesting replies to our last case?"

"You have fan mail from about a dozen middle-aged women who seem to think a sociopathic brain is just the right man to marry. Want me to print them off for you tomorrow?"

Sherlock frowned.

"Are you serious?"

"Absolutely."

"I don't get it."

"Me neither. If I was a woman I would consider marrying Mycroft before I'd consider you."

A pillow hit me on the back of my head.

"That was an insult."

"That was the truth."

"John?"  
"Yes?"

"Sleep tight."

"Dito."


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning started with coffee, croissants, the local newspaper and – in my case – a horrible pain in the back that was to blame on the sofa not having been as comfortable as it had looked in the first place.

It also started with someone ringing the doorbell in a very annoying very persistent way. They boy who entered the parlour the next moment was about 15 years old, red haired, freckled and – as Sherlock found out after a single glance – Christopher's nephew.

"Did you already hear it?", he asked when he had caught his breath. "There's been another break-in at the Cunningham's place!"

Sherlock and me simultaneously set down our cups and lifted our heads, all attention.

"Burglars again?", asked Christopher pulling a fourth chair to the table and urging the boy to sit down.

"Murder this time, uncle! Can you believe it? A murderer in Reigate?"

The boy's voice was somewhere between fear and excitement.

Christopher crossed himself.

"Oh my God. So who was killed? Old Cunningham or his son?"

"Neither of them. Remember they had that caretaker, Kirwan? Shot right through the heart. They say Kirwan came into the living room when the burglar was just breaking in through the window and tried to stand up to him."

"At what time did it happen?"

Sherlock's eyes were gleaming. Here was a case, a serious case, something to occupy his ever hot-running brain.

"Around midnight as far as I know."

"I'll have to see the crime scene", said Sherlock decidedly when the boy had left. "The earlier, the better."

When he met my eyes he sighed.

"Yes, doctor I am going to eat my breakfast first. Don't worry. But Christopher - would you be so good as to tell me a bit about these people, the Cunninghams?

"Oh there's not too much to know about them. They came here from Ireland about two generations ago. The old man started his career as a stockbroker and his son has taken the same road of occupation. They are nice enough people. It will be a shock to them that Kirwan is dead. He has been working for them as long as I can remember and was almost a member of the family. What do you think, Mr Holmes, is it quite possible that the same people that broke into Acton's house committed the murder?"

"That would be curious. I would not expect a band of robbers to hit the same town twice in just a few days time. That's just so terribly insensible. When you took that pistol upstairs with you yesterday I was very close to saying that whoever these burglars were, it would be very unlikely that they'd turn their attention on Reigate again. The more interesting that whoever it was seems to have stayed here. Well… it could also be that the two things are completely unrelated but I don't think so."

"I would consider that it is someone from Reigate", replied Christopher. "Because for a local Acton's and Cunningham's places would be the first to target. They both made a load of money on the stock market."

"I assume they are the richest people in the district?"

Christopher shook his head.

"No definitely not. They might have been very wealthy once, but you know, the stock market crash... and they have been in a law-suit for a couple of years now. As far as I know, Acton has a claim on a part of Cunningham's stocks and they have been fighting about that for ages now. And as always the lawyers have been the only ones who made a profit in that game."

Sherlock sat back in his chair, fingertips touching fingertips, his classical pose. His hair had been washed this morning and as it started to dry went much curlier than it usually looked.

"But don't you think that a guy from around here would know about that lawsuit?", he asked. A frown appeared on his forehead and he sighed then got up to get another cup of coffee. He seemed to be unsteady on his legs and gripped my shoulder to steady himself.

"Are you all right?", I asked, the concern probably too audible in my voice. His hand lay heavy on my shoulder and he took a couple of deep breaths, before he withdrew it again.

Suddenly the fire left his eyes. "John, you're right. I should relax a bit before getting all business-y again. This is a boring case after all. I'm not going to meddle in this. This is below me."

We resumed our breakfast and I was just wondering why Sherlock's interest in the matter had so suddenly died away. To be honest, the matter didn't sound like the most exciting case of all times, but even a small case would be better than nothing. Then, I thought of his sudden weakness again that had struck like lightning out of nowhere. Was it possible that he was hiding something from me? That he was much sicker than he made me believe?

I had just managed to land a fork full of scrambled eggs on my jeans - because I had not been paying attention to what my hands are doing because I was completely occupied by watching my companion's every move trying to find out what was going on - when the doorbell sounded again. This time, our visitor was a tall, slender man with dark hair and piercing eyes who introduced himself to us as Inspector Forrester. He had come to ask for Holmes' help in the Cunningham case. Sherlock sighed.

"Give me the details and I might think about it again", he said yawning.

Forrester sat down on the chair that had been vacated by Christopher's nephew and explained the background of the affair. The police had not had a clue in the Acton-case but in the Cunningham-case the murderer had been seen running away from the scene of crime. The old Cunningham had already gone to bed and his son Alec was smoking a last cigarette on the balcony. Both of them had heard Kirwan scream for help and when Alec ran down to see what the matter was, he found the back door open and saw two men tangled up in a fight on the ground in front of it. The shot was fired and the next moment one of the men was rushing off while the other – whom Alec found to be the caretaker – fell down. Old Cunningham had told the police he had seen the murderer run away from his bedroom window but had lost sight of him. Alec, instead of chasing the villain, had stayed behind to see whether anything could be done for Kirwan, but the caretaker had died without another word.

"So, we know nothing much about the murderer except for the fact that he's average height and was wearing a dark coat. We're making enquiries and should he be a stranger I am sure we will soon have him."

Sherlock nodded.

"Did that Kirwan live in the Cunningham house?", he asked. Forrester denied and replied that the caretaker had been living a bit up the road in a small house that he shared with his mother. "I guess he just wanted to check everything was all right before going to bed. This Acton-business had everyone alarmed, so I guess that was why he was there."

Sherlock frowned and started fumbling about with one of the spoons on the table.

"So, did you interview the mother yet?"

"She's under shock and may not be questioned. But she might not know anything after all. She's almost deaf. Judging from her reaction, she had not even noticed that her son had left the house. There is one small clue that we have though."

He produced a plastic bag and handed it to Sherlock. A mobile phone was in it.

"We managed to crack the password and found a text message that had been sent by an unknown number."

Sherlock was alert.

"What does it say?"

The inspector pressed a few buttons and gave the phone back to my friend again.

"Here, see for yourself..."

AT QUARTER TO TWELVE

"Is that all?"

"All we could find, Mr Holmes."

"So, it seems like the fact that Kirwan was at the house when the burglar appeared was no coincidence after all. This sounds like an appointment."

The inspector's eyes went wide.

"So you would assume Kirwan had anything to do with the thieves?"

Holmes shook his head. I could see that his mind was already working hard on the task. He got up.

"I don't assume anything. I will now go and brush my teeth and exchange this nightgown for suitable clothes and then I'll have a look at the crime scene. I'll see you later, inspector."


	5. Chapter 5

When I entered the room ten minutes after the great detective had decided it was time to get dressed, I found him sitting in one of the chairs, his chin resting on his knees. He didn't even seem to notice that I entered the room for a couple of minutes. Obviously he was running about in his mind-palace. I didn't want to disturb him, so I brushed my teeth very slowly before I came into the room again.

„I think it's a very interesting thing", he said. „It's not just a robbery. There's something different behind this. I just don't have any idea what it could be at the moment. Oh John, don't look at me like that. I'm not going to drop down dead any moment."

I shrugged.

„I'm just concerned. It's my job, you know? I care."

„Well don't care too much then. I'll be perfectly all right. I'll now go and ask our host whether we can have his car to drive to the scene of crime and will be back in a minute to fetch you."

He left the room and I sat on the sofa wondering why the picture of Sherlock „dropping dead" did not vanish from my mind.

A couple of minutes later the door flew open and he tumbled into the room his face pale, ashen, his eyes wide open with fear.

I jumped off my seat to rush to him and found him trembling and covered in a layer of sweat. He struggled to stay on his feet but his legs didn't hold him and he fell into my arms.

„Sherlock!", I shouted, my senses alert, my heart beating double-speed. I lowered him to the floor. His skin was waxen and he was breathing hard as if he had run very fast for a very long time. Usually my friend's physical abilities astonished me. He never worked out but he ran after murderers and jumped from rooftop to rooftop if the job required it and he never got exhausted. And now he was here, shivering, pale, holding on to my hand as if it was the last and only lifeline left to him.

His lips opened and closed as if he wanted to say something but he didn't manage to speak.

„Sherlock!", my voice was too loud, too excited, too scared for a medic. I should have been soothing, had to calm him down. I just couldn't. My friend, the one friend that mattered in this life, was dying and I couldn't even make out what had happened.

„John!"

His voice came out almost as usual, the familiar dark, melodious sound. There was something in it that was unusual though. At first I thought he might be frightened – something that was not in Sherlock's limited repertoire of human feelings usually – but then I thought he sounded concerned… concerned?

„John!", something hit me in the face and pulled me back into reality. „Wake up!"

Slap. My cheek hurt and the dream was shattered to pieces. Sherlock was standing next to the sofa, alive, breathing, and not dying at all. He nodded and drew back his hand with a sigh.

„Sorry, didn't know how else to get you out of this", he said calmly and took a step back.

I was overwhelmed by relief.

"You're alive", was my not-too-intelligent comment.

"Aye, cleverly put, John. I'm breathing, my pulse is at 75 beats per minute – well it might be faster as you just lay on the sofa screaming like a maniac and caused me to hit you in the face, but as I am in good physical condition it should not be at more than 80 – and my brain is also working, so I am pretty much alive in every definition there is."

I laughed and tried to clear the slightly awkward situation up.

"Okay, so where are we going?"

"We are going to Cunningham's house. I had a look at the estate earlier on whilst you were sleeping, but I decided it would be best to have you and the inspector with me. "

I saw the gleam in his eyes and grinned. He was on it. He was playing the game. My assumption was confirmed when I met the inspector in the hallway and the good man was all too eager to tell me – when he thought Sherlock was not listening – that my friend had behaved very strangely earlier on when he had come home from his first visit to the Cunningham estate and that he thought it wise to have me come with them as Sherlock seemed to be likely to have a nervous fit. I watched my companions back and thought that Forrester could not have been further off but didn't say anything. My mind was still occupied with the really strange behaviour of my flatmate. Point one: He had found me sleeping on the couch and instead of waking me up immediately had let me sleep and done a first inspection of the crime-scene on his own. Point two: He had sounded concerned when I had been screaming whilst having that nightmare.

Sherlock, who didn't understand the concept of human feelings, who considered himself married to his work and didn't get the point of relationships, had sounded concerned. That was probably a first. And I was wondering how much he had deduced about the subject of my dream. What had I been screaming? And... did I really want to know?

We got into Christopher's car and drove off. The Cunningham estate was not too far away. We reached it after 15 minutes that were mostly down to waiting for a herd of sheep crossing in front of us.

"So, while we are standing here and unable to do anything as these four-legged herbivores won't move any faster, I will explain what I already found out", said Sherlock and put his fingertips together.

"First: I went to see the corpse of the unfortunate Kirwan. He has died from the shot with certainty. No doubt about that. And before you ask, inspector: Yes, it was obvious that it had to be that way and I still had to see it for myself to be sure. I also went to see Mr Cunningham and his son who showed me the place where the murderer had trampled down the hedge before running off. That was interesting. I also visited Kirwan's mother but she's absolutely useless to us as she's half demented."

He fell into silence which was – after a couple of seconds – broken by the inspector from the backseat.

"So... what do you make of it?"

Sherlock blinked.

"I make of it", he said, "A very interesting crime, very peculiar. We should be able to shed more light on this during our visit. The text message, inspector, is of course extremely important as it mentions the very hour of the man's death."

"I agree with that", said Forrester, "it's definitely a clue."

"I think it might be much more than that. Don't you think that what we saw is only part of a message?"

"Well, there were no other texts on the phone."

"No other texts we could still see", was Sherlock's dark reply. "This doesn't mean they never existed. We need to get the other messages."

I had the feeling that "getting the other messages" was something that Sherlock had already ordered someone to do. Mycroft should be able to trace all the texts in the commonwealth. If anyone could access all text messages ever sent in the commonwealth to retrieve those that had been deleted from Kirwan's phone it was certainly Sherlock's strange brother.

But just when I wanted to ask whether my idea was right, the last sheep trotted by and I had to concentrate on following the narrow winding road up to the Cunningham's place.


	6. Chapter 6

When we reached the house, a police car was parking in front of it and one of Forrester's men led us to the place where the younger Mr Cunningham had seen the two men fighting. The door led into the kitchen of the house and it was easy to see that the lock had been tempered with.

"Odd", said Sherlock. "I could swear I saw traces of a dog in the garden."

"They own a dog", nodded Forrester. "Huge Doberman thing. It attacked me when I first set my foot upon the ground here and it was a most unpleasant creature."

Sherlock looked up.

"Okay, then the question is: Why did said dog not attack the burglar in the same manner?"

"They say he was chained up as he is every night."

"And didn't even bark?"

"The doghouse is at the opposite side of the house."

Sherlock didn't ask further but looked at the grounds where the fight had taken place. Sadly, there were no traces to be found upon the asphalt outside although Sherlock still examined every centimetre of it.

"Can I ask you something?", said I, when I was sure, he would not snap at me and really was only pretending to do his job.

"Why did we take Christopher's car instead of going in the one we hired to get to Surrey?"

Sherlock looked up and smiled.

"Guess, John. It's pretty easy even if you only have a normal brain to get behind it."

I overheard the insult of my intellect and turned the circumstances over in my head.

"Mycroft", I deduced. "Do you really think he..."

"Set up a surveillance-system in the car?" Sherlock was now examining the door lock. "Yes he did. I don't only think so, I know it as I already found out where it's situated but I'd have to pull apart half of the interior to get rid of it, so I decided changing the car is much less trouble."

Just when we had started laughing simultaneously, an old man appeared followed – judging by the similar facial proportions – by his son. The Cunninghams.

"Still looking for a clue great detective?", said the older one mockingly. "And brought your boyfriend to help you this time, didn't you?"

"I need a bit of time", replied Sherlock nonchalantly and ignored the second half of the man's speech.

"Oh yeah. Obviously you're stumbling through the darkness and don't have a single idea what happened here", came the prompt answer from Alec Cunningham.

"But we have a clue", that was Forrester who had been standing in the doorway. "We have the te... oh my God, Holmes!"

Sherlock had –without any preparatory warning – dropped to the floor and lay absolutely motionless. I rushed to his side, checking his pulse, relieved to find it steady as ever, just slightly slower. He didn't regain consciousness though and we had to carry him into the house and onto the sofa in the salon, where he finally opened his eyes again after I managed to get him drink some coca cola.

"Oh, did I actually... pass out?"

He seemed embarrassed and I really felt for him. His health still was not completely restored and it hindered him in his work.

"Should we help you to the car? Do the two of you want to drive home?", asked old Cunningham, who suddenly seemed much better natured than before.

Sherlock waved his hand.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. Just get me some coffee and a cig... a nicotine patch and I'll be up and walking in five minutes. But as I'm just lying here, there's something I'd like to know. I saw that the burglar obviously tried to open the kitchen door when poor Kirwan arrived and surprised him. I'm only wondering whether you're completely sure the guy had not already been in the house when he bumped into your caretaker ."

Both Cunningham's shook their heads.

"Although I already was in bed, I was still reading and I would have heard if anyone had entered the building. Same goes for Alec who was smoking his last cigarette on the balcony. Neither of us heard anything suspicious."

"Did you have the lights on in your bedroom?"

"Well you can't read in the dark, can you?"

"And Alec probably also had a light switched on in his room I assume?"

"Of course."

Sherlock frowned and put his fingertips together.

"It seems to be kind of strange for a burglar to attempt to break into a house when he can see from the lights in two windows that the inhabitants are still awake."

"Well, it's strange I admit", said Alec. "But the other thing, your assumption that it could be possible he had already robbed us before he bumped into Kirwan: Don't you think we would have noticed if stuff was missing?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"If his choices were as elaborate as in the Acton-case you would hardly have noticed. Or do you keep track of every single book on your shelves and every single candlestick you own? But I think I can stand up now so we should be able to walk around and check whether anything is missing."

Whilst we were walking up the stairs to where the bedrooms were situated, Sherlock asked whether Kirwan was usually found around the house at that time of night at which he had been killed. Both Alec and his father denied it. Kirwan had usually left the estate at seven and had not returned until eight the next morning.

The gleam in my friend's eyes told me he came closer to solving the case with every step he took but I didn't see through the whole matter yet.

"Could I have a look into the bedrooms?", he asked.

Cunningham didn't seem to be too eager to let the detective see his private quarters but finally gave in. We had a look at Alec's chamber where Sherlock stepped out onto the balcony to look around. Then we went into the older Cunningham's bedroom where something curious happened that I could not quite understand. Sherlock had been walking last in the group next to me. Just when we entered the room he pulled his phone from his back pocket and looked at the screen with a bemused smile. When he noticed a vase standing on one of the sideboards in the room, he deliberately pushed it over the edge with his elbow and it made a mess of shattered china, water and flowers on the carpet.

"Ahhh, John! Look at the mess you made!", he cried out and winked at me. Okay, so the game was on again and I had to play the idiot who had dropped the vase. Nice one, I would make him pay for this. So I murmured about a dozen apologies and began to pick up the flowers and asked for a towel to mop the water up when suddenly I heard Forrester's confused voice: "Where's he gone? He's vanished."

And so it was. Sherlock had left the room when everyone had been busy looking at me.

"That fellow is out of his mind!", said Cunningham shaking his head. "Come on Alec, let's see where he has gone. I don't want him to start rummaging the drawers."


	7. Chapter 7

I exchanged a confused look with Forrester and shrugged.

"He is always like that."

"Guess there's always a bit of madness in the genius", he replied.

I didn't say anything. Somewhere in my brain there was a cry of protest, but what else should people think of Sherlock's behaviour but that he was slightly mad? I was a doctor, I knew some of the things he did as signs for a kind of autism, but then there were situations in which he behaved contradictory to what information I had gathered. He didn't fill out any stereotype but was his very own very special creation. But "mad" would not have been the term I would have chosen, although body-parts in the fridge that we kept the food in could be interpreted as a relic of craziness.

His empathy was limited but not inexistent, as I had seen myself when he had reconsidered his "I don't have friends" comment to tell me he actually considered me to be his friend. I had been so happy when he had managed to realize and say that...

He was like Kaspar Hauser, someone who had lived far from the rules of life and who didn't understand them (if you thought about it, some of the rules people stuck to were really bogus, but nobody ever questioned them because they were basics – no one but Sherlock). Sometimes he behaved like a child. When he got excited over a case he could be just like a 10 year old who just got a puppy.

Sherlock had told me once that he considered himself married to his work, but it was nothing he could control, no decision he had made. He could not help being solo solo and the reason behind it lay much deeper than one could reach. I considered Sherlock absolutely capable of love I just didn't consider him able to distinguish the feeling and know that he felt it. The way he had behaved after he had believed Irene Adler to be dead was a sign for this. He had the feelings in him, but he couldn't use them. It was also clear that he was not attracted by the same things as a "normal" person. He looked at the body and yes, he had an ideal that was comparable to Da Vinci's golden cut. But aesthetics alone didn't move him. Sexiness didn't touch him. Sherlock – as everyone else in this world – was unconsciously looking for a soulmate, a like-minded person, someone who was similar to him. And as Sherlock was as unique as he was, it was tough to come by a person like that. Irene had not ticked all the boxes, but more than any other person before and thus earned the title he gave her "the woman" meaning: "The only woman that ever counted."

I had to admit I hated when he referred to her because the mixture of respect and unpolished longing in his voice made me jealous – something I would never have admitted to anyone not even to my therapist. I wanted him to speak of me in the same tone... but I knew he would never come to that point because I was just another idiot who somehow managed to cope with him and who didn't constantly annoy the hell out of him.

I had left my mind wondering thinking about all that whilst picking up the rest of the china from the carpet, when I suddenly was startled by a loud cry that spoke of danger and fear. I had heard a million cries like this and not one that was exactly the same. This was the cry I could not stand to hear. Before Forrester and his men had even realized that there was something going on, I was already up and running. I had already come to the conclusion that Holmes had probably gone back to the old man's bedroom and it was a lucky guess for when I entered the room, banging the door against the wall, I was just in time to see Old Cunningham producing a knife whilst Alec Cunningham had Sherlock pinned to the floor and was strangling him with his bare hands.

I had already pulled out my revolver. When both men noticed they were lost in their business of killing the great detective, they both threw themselves on the floor, reaching for Sherlock's smart phone that was lying nearby.

"Get it, Watson!", my friend shouted, his voice hoarse. He was coughing, "don't let them lay their hands on it!"

I jumped, elbowed Old Cunningham out of the way and hit Alec in the face breaking his nose. Then I grabbed the phone and was up again in an instant to keep both assailants under control with my weapon.

I didn't have to wait more than 20 seconds until Forrester rushed in followed by two by his men and settled the matter.

Sherlock got up, his face a mask of pain. I noticed a limp when he walked towards me.

"Thank you, John", he said calmly. "I guess this is the second time you have actively saved my life. I... that was close."

"It was", I admitted, feeling my pulse slow down now that the immediate danger was over. "But what the hell happened here?"

Sherlock shook his head and waved tiredly.

"I'm going to explain everything in due time, John. But I would like Acton to be here for that. I'll ask Forrester to send one of his men to get him. And then...", he coughed again, "... I would like some tea first because I think my voice-chords might otherwise decide to give up on me half way through the explanation and that would ruin the whole effect."

I nodded. I knew there was no point in pressing him and I would get my story for the blog soon enough. He was right. He should sit down, have some tea and calm down.

A quarter of an hour later we were both sitting in Cunningham's dining room both with a cup of tea in front of us, when I noticed a slight trembling in my companion's hands.

"Is everything all right?", I asked. He nodded, the shiver getting worse.

"I just feel a bit chilly, that's all."

Shock. So, finally, he had a shock after I had been wondering whether he was capable of getting one from any situation. He had been completely okay after the pill-incident that had been the beginning of our friendship but I had seen him scared lately when he had thought he had seen the hound of Baskervilles... he became more and more used to the rules of the game and so he also became more and more accessible for its drawbacks.

I went to pick up a tartan-rug that was lying on the sofa. When I came back, he had his feet on the chair, arms wrapped around the knees. I draped the rug around him as well as I could and he pulled it closer. I let my hand lay on his shoulder to calm him down, waited until the trembling lessened. Just when I wanted to pull my hand back again, because I thought the worst was over, he grabbed my wrist with all the strength he possessed then linked his fingers with mine. I didn't say anything and neither did he and so I stayed next to him until the shiver had faded and he let go of my hand.

Just when I had resumed my place in the other armchair and picked up my cup – the tea had gone cold – Forrester entered the room followed by a slender man in his sixties with grey hair and a strong lined face.

"Mr Holmes", he said, "may I introduce Mr Acton. You said you would shed light on this case as soon as he came here, so I am looking forward to your deductions."

Sherlock had pushed the tartan rug off his shoulders and in an instant returned to his old arrogant self, his business-self, his "great detective"-self.

"Good to see you, Mr Acton. Take a seat, you too, Forrester. And then we can proceed with the most particular story that led to the death of a poor caretaker and almost to my own peril..."


	8. Chapter 8

"So, where do I begin? Well, the first really suspicious thing that I came upon was Alec Cunningham's account of the burglary. We found that there was a strange text message on Kirwan's phone. I rightly deduced immediately that this message must have been part of a number of other texts that were written to give directions to the poor fellow. But why did we only find one message on the phone? Obviously someone had deleted the other ones to cover his tracks and had overlooked this one. If the narrative of Alec was true and the murderer fled right after having fought with the caretaker, there would not have been any possibility for the stranger to delete the suspicious texts... but someone deleted them. And it could only have been Alec himself because when the old man came down all the servants had already assembled at the crime scene."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and took smiled.

"I guess that this is exactly why one message was left untouched. Alec Cunningham had to stop his doing because the servants were aroused... but well, that's only a guess. He might have simply overlooked it. We were lucky to find this message because it led me on the right path. It was vital though that neither Alec nor his father should know about this piece of evidence... and as Forrester almost gave it away..."

I jumped out of my seat.

"You faked that blackout?", I exclaimed. "You..."

Sherlock patted my shoulder.

"I'm sorry John. I knew you would be worried. But it had to be done."

"You could have hurt yourself when you let yourself drop to the floor."

"I've done worse."

I decided it was time to be silent and brood. After a couple of seconds, Sherlock took up his explanation again.

"I contacted someone I know who could get hold of all the text messages that had been sent to Kirwan's number during the last 24 hours. It took a while but finally..."

His fingers tapped on his phone and after scrolling a bit he first handed it to me and then to the inspector. The whole message was before us. It had been sent in scraps of only a couple of words at a time. And something very peculiar struck us, when we looked at the whole file.

"There have been two senders involved", I said. "The messages were sent from two alternating numbers."  
"Exactly, John", said Sherlock and grinned. "There have been two people involved in the matter, two people who did not trust each other in the business they were on – obviously a bad one - and therefore decided to deliver their message in this strange fashion. You can also tell that we are facing two different generations here."

"What?", exclaimed Forrester. "Where do you get that from? I could understand if it was a handwritten message because you can deduce pretty much everything from a man's handwriting, but these are typed texts."

My friend stood up and started walking up and down in the room, gesturing to underline his theses.

"The thing is easier than you think, Forrester. Look at the times that the texts were sent. The times between text 1 and 2, 3 and 4, 5 and 6 are much longer than the time lapses between texts 2 and 3, 4 and 5, 6 and seven. Do you see that? The bigger gaps are all more than a minute whilst the short gaps are sometimes only 20 seconds but 40 seconds at the longest. I can tell from that and from the fact that the author of the pair texts used capital letters at the beginning of names, whilst the impair texts consist of capital letters only, that the writer of the impair texts is younger and more accustomed to texting. He is also a very strong and very arrogant character as more humble people tend to rather use only small letters than only capital ones in their texts. And – as he wrote the first message – he is also the head of the crime."

"This is extraordinary", said Forrester. "I would never have thought of that, but you are completely right."

"So, this already told a lot, but there was more to be seen. I found that the shot that had killed the poor caretaker had been fired from a distance of at least for yards. If it had been as Alec Cunningham told us and the shot had been fired whilst the burglar and the caretaker were fighting I would have found marks on Kirwan's clothes, but there were none which gave the story of the fighting away as a lie. I also asked about where the burglar had run. Both men agreed on the route that he had taken to the street. Most of the way is cemented so he would not have left traces, but there are a few muddy patches just before the road and as there were no footprints there..."

"Another lie", said Forrester, nodding.

"Another lie that made the Cunningham's more and more suspicious. But what could have been their motive? To find out about that I had done some research on the Acton-case. Is it true, Mr Acton that you are in possession of a couple of papers that prove that you are the rightful owner of 50% of the stocks Cunningham claims to be his?"

Acton nodded.

"Exactly so, Sir."

"And you keep them in the library?"

"I used to keep them in the library but as matters got worse at court, I started to lock them in a safe in my room."

"Ahh", Sherlock grinned. "That was the only thing I didn't know yet. But it makes perfect sense. Whoever broke into your house was looking for something and as he could not find it, he just took whatever was in reach and be it something as boring as a candlestick. Having come as far as this with my research, there was only one thing I had to do. I had to find out who owned the mobile phones going with these numbers you saw in the file. I could have asked my brother to get the names for me but that would have taken a while as even Mycroft is not able to push past all bureaucratic boundaries. But I was lucky, because when we went into Alec's room I saw his phone lying on his bedside table. It was switched on so I only had to go back and check for the number. I had just done that, when him and his father entered the room and tried to get rid of me."

I saw a slight shudder in his features and was ready for another moment of weakness, but he managed to stay calm this time.

"I could get some things out of Old Cunningham and his son", said Forrester. "More out of the former though. We needed two policemen to keep Alec in check."

"So?", asked Sherlock all attention. "Did they tell you that William Kirwan had to die because he knew too much about the Acton-burglary?"

Forrester nodded.

"He had followed them to the house, had seen them break in..."

"I guessed it would have been so", said Sherlock. "But I had no proof for it."

"Old Cunningham told us everything. Instead of keeping his mouth shut or talking to the police, Kirwan tried blackmailing his masters and thus found his end as Alec decided they had to get rid of him. It was also the idea of the younger man to set it up as another break-in."

"He's a clever boy", Sherlock admitted. "And he's cold as ice in his doings. We were lucky to have this message."

I peered at his mobile phone again where the file with the text messages was still open.

Nr: 077X XXXX349 08:30:42: IF YOU WILL ONLY

Nr: 077X XXXX453 08:32:03: come round

Nr: 077X XXXX349 08:32:30: AT QUARTER TO TWELVE

Nr: 077X XXXX453 08:33:20: to the east gate

Nr: 077X XXXX349 08:33:45: YOU WILL LEARN SOMETHING INTERESTING

Nr: 077X XXXX453 08:34:30: for you and Annie Morrison

Nr: 077X XXXX349 08:34:55: DON'T TELL ANYONE AND BE ON TIME!

„There is one more mystery in here which I will leave to you to solve, inspector", said Sherlock. „Who ist hat Annie Morrison and what was her relation to Kirwan and Alec Cunningham? It's not an essential information but it might help at court to have that clear."

Forrester nodded, thanked the detective again and was off to do his duty.

As soon as he had left, Christopher came into the living room with a bright smile.

„The two of you interested in some delicious cake? I hear you solved the crime, Mr Holmes. I'm so delighted to have you here as my guest. Tea?"


	9. Chapter 9

When – after a good dinner and some wine – we finally went up to our room, it was pretty late in the night. I had still not held my speech of „We are not a couple for heaven's sake!" but didn't feel inclined to do so because I could not find the energy for it. The only thing was: It still left us with one huge king size bed and a terribly uncomfortable sofa. I sighed when I entered the room and my eyes fell on that furniture-piece of torture.

„I assume you won't re-think your I-am-not-going-to-share-a-bed-that-would-be-big-enough-even-if-Lestrade-and-Mycroft-joined-us policy?", said Sherlock . I nodded and sat down on the sofa. I was not looking forward to this night. Not at all.

Half an hour later, Sherlock had retreated to his quarters and was probably already sleeping soundly whilst I was still wide awake and tried to figure out the best angle to lie on the couch. It had started to rain earlier in the evening and as the room was right underneath the roof the drumming of the raindrops soon lulled me into the land of dreams...

From which I was pulled back into reality after what felt like seconds but might well have been an hour. At first I didn't know what had made me start and caused me to sit up straight on the sofa, all senses alert. But then I heard it again: A cry, a most horrible cry, desperate, pleading. I was at the door to the bedroom in an instant and found that it was really Sherlock who was screaming. I was shocked. Sherlock was having a nightmare. Sherlock, who never dreamt and seemed to be detached from his unconscious self completely, was screaming as if all the beasts of hell were after him. His hands clenched into fists he was fighting off an invisible enemy, gasping, screaming again.

I rushed to his side and switched on the small lamp on his bedside table, repeatedly saying his name in the most soothing tone I could manage in my state of surprise and horror at seeing him like that and when it didn't help, I finally put both hands on his shoulders and pushed him down into the pillow. He gave another cry; then his eyelids flew open. For a couple of seconds he was still lost in his dream before the realisation crept into his face.

"John", he said, his voice hoarse. "How? Why?"

"You were screaming", I said matter-of-factly in the tone that I had learnt to assume in my time as an army doctor when I had to tell soldiers they had lost a limp or that one of their comrades was dead. "You had a nightmare."

Just as I always have nightmares, just as he used to wake me up. But this time the roles were switched. This was something new.

"I... I guess I am still not quite done with almost dying earlier on", he said and managed a half-smile.

"It's all right", I said and smiled back. "It's all okay."

He sighed and wiped his forehead which was covered in sweat.

"Dear me, I'm going to take a shower, this is disgusting."

He stood up and moved towards the bathroom. Just when he reached the door he turned around once more.

"John?"

"Huh?"  
"Thanks for... you know... keeping me from strangling myself with the bed sheet..."

"No problem."

I sat down on the bed and could hear the shower being turned on and Sherlock humming a tune, something by Bach if I wasn't mistaken. The rain was still drumming on the roof. Everything was calm. Everything was fine. The bed was quite comfy. We had survived another adventure. Life with Sherlock could be called anything but boring. The rain and the melody mixed and formed a small quiet symphony.

I don't recall falling asleep but I must have been very tired and so the next morning the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a bunch of black curly hair right in front of my nose. The next thing I noticed, were two green eyes half-hidden by the hair that were watching me with an interested expression and an almost inhuman intensity as if trying to figure something out and not reaching a conclusion.

"Good morning, John."

Sherlock's voice was still a bit sore from the screaming but apart from that he seemed to be all right and he smelled of peppermint shampoo.

"Did I..."

"When I came out of the shower you were sleeping soundly as a baby and as I thought you had enough of an aching back and as there was no chance of you protesting I just pushed you into a more suitable position and left you right where you were."

"Hmm", I was still only half awake.

"You stole my pillow by the way", Sherlock said mockingly and poked me in the upper arm.

"Sorry about that."

For a while we were both silent and listened to the rain that didn't seem to ever want to stop again. For a few minutes we stayed at that strange place far away from reality where neither time nor date nor people mattered, on an island where it was not Sherlock Holmes the great sociopathic detective and his sidekick former army doctor John Watson but just Sherlock and John, best friends forever. We didn't talk, we didn't move, we just let the seconds go by until finally we both simultaneously came to the conclusion that there was a life that needed our attention and made our way first to breakfast and then after a warm good-bye to Christopher back to Baker Street where Sherlock's next case was already waiting on the doorstep impersonated by a most distressed young lady. But that is quite a different story and might be told another time.


End file.
